"The Rise and Fall of Alexander Romanov"
by Lein
Summary: The hardships and struggles of the Soviet Unions Premier
1. Prolouge

**_"We want no Caesars." – _**_Jawaharlal Nehru, (1st Prime Minister of India)_

PROLOGUE 

**TRINITY: New Mexico: 1946**

The man was fiddling with something on the camera.  The picture wasn't turning out the way it should, and this historic moment needed to be recorded with precise detail.

"Shtop playink with that thing!"  An elderly voice with a German accent said.  The man at the camera didn't bother to look up.

"I've just gotta adjust this…"  His sentence trailed off as he finally got the picture he wanted.

"Give me the sequence calculations," the elderly man asked.  His aid did not move.  "Now!"  He snapped.  That got the man moving.  He walked over to the bench, and picked up a clipboard with some paper work attached to it.  The old man then sat down in the chair, directly in front of the camera.

"They're already done, Professor," he said, handing the old man the clipboard.  The man looked at the board, and then gestured for a pen.  The aid quickly produced one, and the elderly man signed his approval.  He handed back the pen, and the aid moved over to the control panel.

The elderly man checked his pocket watch.  "I vounder if it vill be ranink?"  He muttered, placing his arms on the armrest, as he braced himself.

The aid powered up the generator, and looked over at the old man.  "Stand by," he warned.  There was a loud hum, as electrical pulses sparked and flashed, bathing the old man in coat of blue energy.  Then, there was a loud bang, like a thunderclap, and the chair was empty.

MUNCHI: Germany: 1923 

Arnold Schicklgruber walked down the deserted streets of the city.  Things were finally looking up for him.  The National Socialist German Workers Party he was spying on would be the perfect tool he could use to shape his vision of a new world order.  Although no one in the party knew him yet, he would rise from obscurity, and take control.  Then, he would lead a revolution that would unite all of the German speaking nations, under one government.

He ignored the sounds of the footsteps behind him, as he whistled a happy tune.  He paused on the street corner, to reflect on the life that he would lead.  As he looked about, he noticed the old man walking his way.  He had a sliver white hair that seemed to be all over the place, and a mustache to match.

He nodded to the old man, and then started across the street.

Mr. Hitler?  The old man called out to him.  He paused, then slowly turned about to face the old man.

Yes? he replied, totally confused.  That is my name, but I do not understand, how did you know?

The old man extended his own hand, as if to shake.  Yes, he replied, I don't understand.

Hitler could only stair at the outstretched hand.  Who was this strange man who'd appeared from nowhere, and known his name.  Was he a member of the party?  Hitler extended his own hand.

The theory of Time Travel is one yet to be explored by man, but the possibility of splitting the atoms of time, and ripping open a gateway in both Time and Space, can have chaotic effects.  The efforts needed to transports the complexed molecules of the human body through Time, and through Space, are so great, that when you arrive at your destination, you become an unstable dynamo of energy.

The human body can generate a small amount of electricity, not powerful enough to harm anybody, or even power a light bulb, but the electromagnetic force that is used to power the time machine can manipulate that electricity, and turn a person into a living, walking, black hole.  Anything of equal electric mass, such as another human body, will instantly be erased from Time and Space, if you come into contact.  To connect with another human being, the result is as such.  

That person for one split second, is everywhere in the universe at once, then, unfortunately, you become one with reality, like having your molecules spread like very fine jam, across the Time and Space.  

TRINITY: New Mexico: 1946 

The aid paced nervously up and down, occasionally looking over at the empty chair.  Just then, there was a thunderclap like sound; a bright flash of energy, and the professor was sitting back in his chair.  The aid hesitated for a split second, before rushing over.

"Did you find him?"  He asked, trembling with excitement.  The old man sighed heavily.

"Hitler is… out of the vay."  The aid nearly shouted with joy.

"Congratulations, professor," he cried out, "With Hitler removed…"  The professor held up his hand to silence him.  He hated the idea of changing history, but it was the only way.  6 million innocent souls had been lost to that mad man, and it'd seemed like a good idea, but the effects of what he'd done where finally catching up with him.

What if he'd saved six million lives, or the 45 million who'd died trying to end his reign?  What if he'd prevented the most powerful weapon of all from being developed?  What if he'd set in motion the wheels of something much worse?

"Time vill tell."  He muttered.  The aid was confused.  Of cause he didn't get it, he was young, and inexperienced, but he was the only man he could trust.  If the US government ever found out what he'd developed, they'd mass-produce it faster than they were with the bomb.  He shivered in fear, wondering what he'd done to the future.  "Sooner or later, time vill tell."

**RED ALERT 2: **

**"THE RISE AND FALL OF ALEXANDER ROMANOV"**

**By Lien**

**RUISSA: 1962**

Moscow knew naked war again, the crack of assault rifles, the harsh, abrupt roar of howitzers, the screech and whine of incoming shells, the crash when they struck and the slow rumbling crumble of collapsing masonry afterward.  Almost, Alexi longed for the days when he was sealed up in the Gulag, when dying came slow rather than sudden.  Almost.

Harrier jets screamed overhead, almost low enough to touch but too fast for antiaircraft guns to hit.  Bombs fell, one after the other.  The explosions that followed were bigger than those the usual run of allied bombs produced unaided; the Allies must have set of some ammunition.  Another section of the Kremlin wall exploded in a shower of broken masonry.  

They had finally come.  He had been expecting them to come, although maybe not after this long.  Two months seemed to be a long time for them to reach the hart of the country, but then again, they had to fight the Black Guard off first.  When they got near, he could hear the artillery exploding, and the guns going off, casting a red glare over the city, partly from the flames of the fires along the countryside, and partly from the blood.  Yes, the blood.  It was rare now to go somewhere and not see a wall or street covered with that dried, red liquid.  

Alexi could hear them getting especially close, now being able to hear the reloading of the assault rifles and the loudly screamed almost barked commands.  He could hear the sounds of boots hitting the pavement in the intervals of drilled marching.  This made him realize that he was going to be taken by them, and that would mean the end of his family legacy.  He started to get as many matches to his volumes upon volumes of documents as possible.  As much as it pained him to destroy so much of his years of hard work, he wouldn't let it get into those bastards' hands.  He was so involved in the trashing of his adult life that he almost didn't hear the knocking on his door.

"Premier," The Colonel at the door said, "the Allies have breached the compound, it's not safe here anymore.

"Da," he snapped, "I know that, how many files have been destroyed?"

"89%, Premier," the man answered.

"I want it all destroyed," Alexi nearly shouted, "The Allies must find nothing when they get here, nothing!"

***

Machine-gun bullets whined less than a meter above Tanya's head.  She dove to the ground, firing blindly as she went.  She raised her head a coulpe of centimeters, just enough to peer out from the crumbling wall of the Kremlin, to see the Apocalypse tank.  It seemed sublimely indifferent to anything a mere foot soldier could hope to do to it.

One of the GI's who huddled with Tanya might have been reading her mind.  The fellow said, "Well, there it is, Major.  What the hell do we do about it?"

"For the time being, we wait," Tanya answered, "Unless you're really keen on dying right now, that is."  The tanks machine-gun stopped spitting flame.  It swung away from the walls, and started heading towards the gates, leading out into the streets.

Behind the tank, were two Flak trucks, they were intending to knock out the Harriers giving them cover.  From a position carefully camouflaged in the broken walls, a heavy machine-gun began to bark.  A couple of Russian soldiers fell.  Others started to run, while others still, wiser or more experienced, flattened out of the ground.

The glass blew out of a Flak trucks windshield when a round or two struck home; Tanya couldn't see what happened to the driver.  The commander of the Apocalypse tank needed longer to notice the machine gun had opened up than he should have.  The moron had his cupola opened up, too; Tanya would have demoted a man for a piece of stupidity like that.

When the tank finally deigned to pay some attention to the machine gun nest, he did just what Tanya had hoped he would; instead of standing off an annihilating it with a round or two from his cannon, he charged toward it, his own machine gun chattering.

Then, the tanks main armament did speak, a bellow that made Tanya's ears ring.  Motor fountain up from behind the machine gun nest.

Brave men there, Tanya thought to herself.

The muzzle of the cannon lowered a few inches, and the other cannon on the tank fired.  This time, the machine gun fell silent.  But Tanya was already dashing forward from the broken walls towards the Apocalypse tank.  Bullets _spanged_ off the ground all around her, as she ran.  

The Apocalypse tank commander would have been looking straight through his forward cupola periscope, for he never saw the female commando pounding towards him from the flank and rear.  Snow flying from her boots as she ran, Tanya covered the couple of hundred meters out to the tank in time an Olympic sprinter might have envied.

The big machine started to move just as she came up to it.  She scrambled onto the rear deck, chucked a satchel charge under the overhang of the turret, and dove off headfirst.  The charge exploded.  The turret jerked as if kicked by a mule.  Blue flames spurted from the engine compartment.  An escape hatch in the front of the tank popped open.  A Russian sprang out, and started sprinting back to the Kremlin. 

Tanya gazed out from behind the wreck of the tank.  No more armor.  Overhead, two Harriers screamed in low, then banked off in opposite directions as they released two missiles.  They slammed into the alien architecture that was a Tesla Coil that guarded the front entrance.  The base of the tower exploded in a shower of electricity, and like a tree, collapsed and shattered on the cemented courtyard.  The remaining Flak truck began to reverse back towards the Kremlin.  It's cannon lowered, and firing like a tank.

 Second later, the reason for this explained it's self, as a blast from a Prism tank caused the truck to erupt into a ball of fire.

***

Alexi was pacing back and forth in the small office of the Kremlin, and it was a miracle he didn't run into the other soldiers in the room.  Every report they got from the Kremlin walls had been encouraging, then, suddenly, the reports stopped coming.  The sounds of battle seemed to be getting closer as well.

"I don't like this, Premier," Skriabin, the NKVD colonel announced, puffing on his cigar.

"Me neither," Alexi muttered, still trying the glance out the boarded up window, "I wonder what's going on."

Skriabin stopped, and seemed to consider the situation.  He then went over to the gun cabinet, and took out his favourite gun, a long-nose revolver.  He loaded the gun, then turned back to Alexi, "I'm going go downstairs and stick my nose out to see what's going on," he told him.

"Skriabin, are you crazy?" Alexi became still, staring at the gun in the NKVD mans hands, "You can't go out there!  The Allies will be looking for me, and I don't want to be alone, not now!"

"This'll take care of them," Skriabin waived the gun, "Better load one up for yourself.  It could get ugly."

Alexi watched him exit the office, and then made his way over to his desk, sitting down in his favourite chair, and pulled out a bottle of Vodka.  He filled up the glass in front of him, and knocked it back, and filled it again.

***

Guards were streaming through the front entrance of the Kremlin, as Skriabin came down the main stairs.  Then, when they let in enough, they closed the doors, despite the fact that there were still men outside.  He could here then shouting, and pounding on the entrance door.

Down of to the right, Lieutenant Zofia manned a communications radio.  The voice that was blearing out on the other end was almost unrecognizable, but who ever it was, didn't sound encouraging.  "You must hold your positions at all costs, stop them!"  She shouted into the radio.  There was the start of an explosion, then cut off in hissing static.  "Hello!  Hello!"  She said into the radio mike.

"What sector was that?"  Skriabin dared to ask; as he approached the makeshift barricade that Zofia was seated behind.  She spun around, startled to see him there, but she still managed to smile.

"The west corner, down by the river.  The Allies are Chrono-warping their troops in all over the city.  Combat units are being diverted from the front line, but there is no guarantee on when they'll arrive." 

"What's the situation outside?" he asked, motioning to the entrance door with the muzzle of his gun.

"The Black Guard has been routed," Zofia reported, "Prism Tanks are entering the courtyard as we speak."

"Where are the nearest available armor units?"  Zofia picked up a clipboard with sheets of graph paper stuck to it.

"The nearest armored units are re-grouping just to the south of here, they were originally part of the western flank, but were turned when we lost power to that sector, and the Harriers started bombing the area."

"What radio Frequency are they on?"  Zofia handed him the clipboard, and the radio mike.

***

Tanya waved the leading Prism tank over to her.  The man inside, popped the tanks Coupla and shouted down to her.

"What can I do for ya, Major?"  

Tanya pointed directly at the Kremlin entrance.  "I need a concentrated blast, right there."

The man nodded, diapering back into the tank.  Four other tanks rolled up to join him.  There was a bright glair, and a blinding flash of light, as the five Prism tanks opened up on the front entrance door.

***

Skriabin had just put down the mike and turned to Zofia when the front door exploded inward.  Bullets started flying, and the few soldiers in the main room of the Kremlin dove for cover.  Zofia tried to pull Skriabin behind the barricade, but he was trying to get his gun out.

"Skriabin, c'mon!" Zofia tugged harder.  Suddenly, she felt 's Skriabin body jerk in her grasp, and he gave a small cry.  With one last pull, Zofia managed to get Skriabin over the barricade and onto the floor below as the main thrust of Allied soldiers entered the room.

"Ow!" Skriabin protested.

Zofia turned to see the left shoulder of his shirt was red, "Skriabin, you've been hit!"

"You noticed," Skriabin snapped, "Sorry, dear.  It's just a flesh wound.  Some Allied dog with a .22 caliber mouthpiece.  I'll be fine," Skriabin shoved a Kremlin bathroom towel into the shoulder of his shirt.  He then looked up to find Zofia with a huge machine gun in her hands, "Where the hell did you get that?" 

"It was a gift from my mother," Zofia replied, struggling with the large weapon.  Finally getting a shoulder under it, Zofia popped up from behind the barricade and took out the front line of commando's with it, managing to spray the whole room, and almost hitting her own troops, who were trying to exit the room, in the process.

"Bozhemoi!" Skriabin squeaked, astonishment on his face.

"Can you still shoot?" Zofia asked.

Dumbfounded, Skriabin nodded.

"Then com on!" Zofia let loose with another round as Skriabin took out his gun and joined her, leaning his good shoulder against the barricade and firing a bit more cautiously than her. Together, they managed to stand, and hobble off down the hallway towards the very bowls of the Kremlin, as the trickle of Allied troops entering the Kremlin quickly transformed into a flood.

**ONE WEEK LATER…**

For a brief nano-second, he couldn't recall where he was.  An inner voice, thick with spite, snickered quietly in his head.

'Embrace the moment.'  It whispered.  'Hang on to the amnesia, because this tiny moment of zero recall is the best thing that's going to happen to you for some considerable time.'

Naturally, he didn't care much for this inner voice, and was doing his best to ignore it.  But nothing could stop the inner voice when it had bad news to impart, news as bad as this bad news.

'Whatever you do,' it continued to bait him, 'don't access reality - you're not going to like it one little bit.'

He struggled into a sitting position and peered through the darkness that surrounded him.  He was in some sort of prison cell.  A huge metal rusty door, at one end, and a small, dimly lit light bulb in the centre of the roof.  He raised his handcuffed wrists and tried to massage a sensible expression onto his face with the balls of his palms.

Prison cell?

Why on earth would he be in a prison cell?  He'd done nothing wrong.  Well, nothing that he could remember anyway.  He looked down, to see that he was lying on some sort of prison bed, with an old grey mattress, and a thick brown blanket, with a very deflated pillow at one end.  He then spied a wash sink, with a mirror.  

Getting up, he walked over to it, and looked at the total stranger staring back at him.

It was a plump man with a seven-day growth and hollow checks.  A guy in a battle ship grey overalls and faded brown rubber soled shoes.  A guy with disappearing jet-black hair, and dark brown eyes.  He looked down at himself.  His hands were cuffed together, with chains that also connected to cuffs around his ankles.  The small length of chian that ran between his leg cuffs, was very short, and made it difficult to walk.

What had I done?

He turned around and headed back for his bunk, turning around, and sitting back down, staring at the door.  He was frightened.  He couldn't remember why, but he just knew.

What?!

Just then, he remembered everything.  It all came flooding back to him, with a vengeance.  He went whiter than a brand-new pair of trainers.

'Told you,' said the inner voice.  'Isn't this the worst situation you've ever been in, in your entire life?'  The inner voice was wrong, but not by much.

He gazed towards the security camera watching him from the top right hand corner of his cell.  Why?  Why him?  Was it bad luck?  Had he just never had the breaks?  Or was it simply that he'd been stupid enough to take that particular route in life?  One lousy thought made by his brain, and things could have worked out so differently.  He wouldn't have wound up here, stuck in the middle of hostile territory, on the other side of the world, thousands of miles away from the nice warm comfort of his motherland

Somewhere along the line, he'd made a really poor career choice.  He let his head fall into his hands, and began to wonder when it had all started to go wrong.


	2. Begining

**ACT I**

**"THE RISE"**

**CHAPTER 1: THE BEGINNING**

"Is this all you need?"  The guard asked.  The chubby balding man in the cell nodded, as he grabbed the pen, and the thick pad of paper.

"Yes, and If I need anything else, I'll let you know."  With that, the slot across his cell door slid shut.  He looked down at his watch – at least they hadn't confiscated that. – He had less than four hours.  Not long enough.  He'd have to work quickly.

Moving over to his bed, he crossed his legs, and resting the paper pad on one knee, bent over, and began writing away furiously.

****

Do you know who I am?  

Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Alexander Nicholas Romanov 4th.  I am officially the last of the Russian Czars, and the last of my bloodlines.  We Romanov's have a legacy spanning back to 1682, when my ancestor, Michael Romanov first ascended the throne of Russia.

I am sure if he; and all the previous Alexander's, were alive today, they would have all died with shame at my failure.  I am a disgrace to my family, and my motherland.  But most of all, I have disgraced the name, Alexander.  My ancestor, Alexander 1st, defeated Napoleon himself, and his armies marched triumphantly into Paris within two years of the French invasion.  Now, it has only been nearly a year, and I am in London, as a prisoner, not a conquer!

But I am sure – as sure as I know I shall receive the death penalty – scholars of the future will spend decades, trying to figure out one simple question.  Why?  Why did a man who had talked only of peace, turn against his very ideals, and followed those of his predecessor?

Well, now you will have that answer.  I suppose it should start; like any good story, at the beginning.  To understand my plight, you must first go back in time, to the year 1894, when my father, Nicholas 2nd first ascended the throne.

**ST. PETERSBURG: 1894 **

It was a sea of faces.  That's how it looked to Nicholas as he watched from the safety of the coronation carriage.  Thousands of Russian peasants had turned up for the coronation of Nicholas Romanov 2nd.  The Romanov density had ruled the throne of Russia for nearly 3 centuries, and now, he would be leading Russia into the next one.  

He twiddled his thumbs nervously, as he just stared straight ahead at his cuisine, Felix Uzukov sitting before him.

"Is something wrong, sire?"  The man asked.  Nicholas just stared blankly back at him.

"Just nervous, that's all," he replied, shrugging his shoulders, the many meddles on his chest jangling as he did so.

"You look worried," Felix replied, leaning forward.

"Is it that obvious?"  He asked, a nervous twitch in his eye.  Felix nodded.

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong?"  He then added, "It might make you feel better."  Nicholas sighed, and then leaning back, he gazed out the window.

"When I was just a boy, I witnessed my own grandfather blown to pieces by an assassin's bomb," he replied.  "I am a firm believer in the faith, and my legacy, that it's my families divine right to rule on the throne of Russia."  Outside, the shouting of the peasants grew louder.

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is my grandfather died because it was the will of God!  Will I suffer the same fate?"

"Most certainly not, sire," Felix, replied, "You are the Czar of Russia, if God says you will rule, you will rule!"

"And what if he says I can't?"  There was a long pause.

"Why wouldn't God want you to rule?"

"I… I don't know," Nicholas, sighed, "I don't want to know, I never wanted to do this, I never wanted to be Czar!"

"Sire, how can you say that, its…"

"Devine right?  I don't want my destiny laid out for me!  I want to create it myself!"  He looked down at his hands, trembling.  "I can't, I know nothing of the business!  I am afraid!"  Nicholas wept.  It was then, that both Nicholas and his guard turned to face the windows.

The shouting of the people outside was getting too loud to ignore.  Nicholas crept to the window, and peered out.  People were moving everywhere, some were screaming, others crying, but no one seemed too happy to see the new Czar.

The carriage rattled to a halt. There were raised voices outside.  "What..." Felix started to say and the right hand carriage door was opened. Three heavily armed royal guards were staring back up at us, one with his hand holding the door open. Nicholas peeked out through the ornate window grill on his side: there were more Royal Guard there. Armed. All heavily armed with firearms and blades.

"Out," the lead guard at the door said, to Felix.

Felix looked back at Nicholas, "Wait," he said.

That bad feeling was back. "Felix," Nicholas started to say.

"Just, wait," he said and stooping out the door. The carriage rocked as he stepped down. The Guards stepped aside, then two of them climbed in and sat down. One opposite and one beside the soon to be Czar. There were the usual nervous twitched, but both of them were bigger than Nicholas, and both of them armed. Their pistols were still in their bandoliers, but their hands were hovering near the grips. Felix was exchanging low, urgent words with another Guard outside.

"What's going on?" Nicholas asked.

Felix turned back to me. His ears were down. "Nicky, go with them."  That made him nervous.  Felix hadn't called him Nicky since before the announcement that he was to be crowned Czar.

"What? What's happening?"

He wasn't meeting Nicholas's eyes. He was having horrible flashbacks to another time along a dark road when his grandfather was killed. "They want you to go with them. To the hall. They want to take you to the church to be crowned."

"What has happened..."

"Nicholas," he said. "They're Royal Guards." As if that explained anything. "Please, just behave?"

The other Guard clambered in, sitting down in the opposite corner. Nicholas saw Felix take a step and hesitate. He looked confused, distressed, annoyed and then the door was closed. A second later the carriage jolted into motion.

The Guards watched him. The last one in was leaning back, watching him through slitted eyes. He appeared a lot more relaxed than the others.  As the carriage started up, he couldn't help but look back out the window.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

A pause, then that calm one said, "Your cosine told you."

"No, he told me what you told him. What was happening out there?  Another assassination attempt? What's going on?"

He tipped his head slightly and those eyes watched him.  "There's been an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"In celebration of your coronation, free beer and bread was handed out to the people watching attending the coronation ceremony, but things got too much out of hand for the police to control, and hundreds of men, women and children, were trampled to death."

Nicholas was horrified.  "Oh dear God!"  He whispered.

"I'm sorry, your majesty," the guard replied, leaning back.  

Nicholas said nothing more for the rest of the trip.  It was a sign, he was convinced of it, and it was so plainly obvious.  A sign of things to come during his rule.  Why did he have to become Czar?

From the dark corners of the buildings, the figure watched.  Completely covered in a thick woolen dark brown blanket, he watched the scene unfold.  He'd seen the Czar's carriage pass by, and the guards get in.  He was now in St. Petersburg, were he should be.  The coronation of the Czar was an important event in history.

History.

History was exactly what it was; history.  Something had happened to the future.  Something that shouldn't, had taken precedence over something else.  Something new was taking shape, and he was not going to miss it!

**MOSCOW: 1903**

The mallet slammed with such force down on the gravel, it nearly broke.  Everyone in the auditorium quickly shut up.

"If this party is to be successful in attaining power, it must be ready to agree on the same ideals and goals!"  Vladimir Ulyanov snapped.  "Otherwise we shall, and will, see a split that will weaken our cause, and the only person who shall benefit from this will be the Czar!"

A few murmurs echoed around the room.  "But, Comrade Ulyanov…" a man started to say, when Vladimir held up a single finger to silence him.

"I told you, my name is Lenin!"

"But comrade Lenin," the man said, obviously annoyed at the interruption, "What you are proposing is going against the true ideals of Marxists!  Power should be held by a party official that the people wish to elect!"

"And I've told you for the last time," Lenin snapped, banging his fist on the podium, "That will only lead to a corrupt capitalist society, where the party members will be more concerned on their voting promises, rather than their responsibilities!" 

Although it wasn't an invitation, arguing sprang up all around the auditorium once more, which quickly turned to shouting, as members tried to out do one another.  Lenin closed his eyes, and covered his ears as he gritted his teeth.

Oh, what he wouldn't give for order.

What everyone failed to notice, was the neatly dressed man, watching everyone from the dark shadows of the doorway with deep blue eyes.    Lenin then repeatedly slammed the hammer down, until everyone was silent again.

"If we can't have order, we won't make any progress!"  Lenin snapped, "Would it be too much to ask everyone to raise our hands if we wish to rebuttal?"  A few heads bobbed in approval.  "Fine," Lenin breath a sigh of relief, "Then maybe we can be out of here before evening falls."

A man with a short mustache raised his hand.  Lenin pointed at him with the mallet.  "The chairman recognizes party member Trotsky.  You may speak."  The man nodded, and stood up.

"I agree with the Chairman on this matter," he said, "To allow an elected Premier to be subjugated to democratic voting would surly bring the chaos that plagues the capitalist governments of the west," Trotsky spoke, "No gentlemen, the countries leader must be voted in by the party it's self, an educated man who has the knowledge and wisdom that will insure he will not abuse his power."

"Here, here!"  A few men cheered.

Across the room, a short balding man with a long goatee shot up like a rocket, with his arm almost vertical in the air, and a stern look plastered on his face.  

Lenin rolled his eyes.  "The chairman recognizes party member Vasiliev," he said, waving the hammer in the man's direction.  "You may speak."

"Chairman," he said, "I do not agree with Member Trotsky on this matter," he turned to face the gathered party members, "in a society that is willing to grant one man that much power is sure not to last very long.  Has history not written, and proven, that absolute power, corrupts absolute?"  The party members gathered on his side of the room cheered loudly, while members on the other side, just glared at them.

Another man raised his arm.  Lenin just nodded to him, and the man stood up.  "But party members would make sure, that the man chosen to be the leader would be the perfect choice, I mean, even we, the educated can tell the difference between right and wrong.  With proper guidance, so will our posterity!"

Another man waved his arm back and forth, and Lenin nodded to him.  "What if one man rises through the ranks, becomes corrupted by that power, couldn't he just turn the party into a dictatorship and rule within the lope-holes of the rules?  Can't you learn from history?  The same thing happened with the Romans, and I will guarantee you gentlemen, the same thing will happen to us!"

"Then if the man was that corrupt, he would never get into the party in the first place!"  Another man shouted out from across the room.

"You tell that to Julius Caesar!"

"All party members are educated men, no one in their right mind would destroy everything Karl Marx hoped to achieve!"

"All human beings are greedy, if you give them more than enough, they'll always want more!"  And with that, the room erupted into anarchy once more.   

Lenin rubbed his forrid with his palms and groaned.  It looked like they would never get out of here.  He then pulled out a pocket watch, and glanced at the time.  3:45.  The shouting was getting louder as Lenin brought his hammer down with the sound of a gunshot.

"Since we can't come to any agreement yet, I suggest that we agern for the day, and re-agern tomorrow when we've all had a decent night's sleep."

"But chairman…"

"Meeting agerned!"  Lenin snapped, and slammed the hammer down.  With that, he gathered up his papers, and hastily shoved them into his leather brief case, and then buckling it shut, he hurried out the door, and into the west wing behind the stage.

Oh, he just had to get out of there, it was driving him crazy.  If things kept up like this, he would split the party, and that seemed like the most logical thing to do, after all, he agreed with the majority, and they were the ones who wanted the party to elect the countries leader.

"Comrade Lenin?"  The voice sounded hollow.  Lenin froze.  He knew everyone in the party, but this person was different.  Slowly he turned around.  The figure behind him was dressed in a black business suit, with a dark brown trench coat.  He had short brown hair, with a thick mustache and a thick, but short beard.

"Who wants to know?"  Lenin asked.  For all he knew, this guy was probably a member of the Czar's secret police.  The man stepped forward, extending his own hand.

"Just a friend."  He replied.

"I have too many friends as it already is," Lenin snapped, and turned around to leave.  Suddenly, he froze.  He couldn't move.  His limbs wouldn't work; he was frozen to one spot.

"Please, don't leave, I insist!"  Then, Lenin found he could move again.  He slowly turned about to face the man, his eyes wide with fright.

"What did you just do to me?"  He whispered in shock.  The man just smiled.

"That's my little secret," was his reply.

"What do you want, who are you?"

"I want to join your little party," the man replied, "That is all, just let me join.  I want no special place, or rank, just give me membership.  As for who I am, I wish to keep my real name to myself."

"Well, if you are to be a member," Lenin replied, "I must know who you are, or who to call you by."  The man thought for a moment.

"My name shall belong only to me, but you may call me… Yuri."

**THE WESTERN SIBERIAN PLANES: TWO MONTHS LATER…**

The horses galloped along at high speed, kicking up a combination of snow and frozen mud, as they traveled along.  The two riders were cloaked, obscuring their faces, as they made their way through the forests.  From the woods themselves, only the wolves, out hunting saw these two men as they tore up the narrow muddy track.  They paid them little heed.

The forest grew thick around them, as they rode one behind the other, turning sharp corners, and nearly losing control.  Dead tree branches scraped at their heavy woolen cloaks, threatening to tear them off.  This did not despair the riders.

Then, with a burst of light, they broke out of the entangled forest, and shot out into an open snowy plane.  High above them, the full moon shone down with an eerie glow, making the white snow, seem to shine with a light of it's own.

The riders did not slow down, as they tore across the field.  They only increased their speed.  Of in the distance, loomed an ancient fortress from the days of Alexander 2nd, when the armies of Russia marched eastward towards the North Western Pacific.  It was old, crumpling and forbidding, and as the riders drew near, torchlight sprang up on the castle battlements.

The guard looked down at them, as the two riders screeched to a shuddering halt before the castle drawbridge.  

"Who goes there?"  He called out in Russian.

The lead rider reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small gold medallion.  He then reached back, and threw the object up the guard.  He caught it, and held it before his torchlight.  A few seconds passed, before the guard tossed the medallion back down to the rider.  He then disappeared from view.

A minute later, there was a loud click, followed by the sound of rusty metal gears whining as the drawbridge slowly lowered it's self down.

It landed with a muffled thump that seemed to echo all around the empty frozen plane.  The lead rider spurred his horse, and the two of them, raced into the castle's courtyard.

The lead rider pulled hard on his horse's rains, and the horse protested loudly, nearly throwing its rider.  His companion, trotted up from behind and both riders dismounted with a quick leap, their boots thudding on the stone courtyard.

From the second floor, two guards in exactly the same cloaks made their way down the stone stairs, towards the riders, each one of them carrying an oil lantern.  They walked over to the newly arrived guests.  The guards looked like characters from the Dark Ages, with their clothes, and oil lantern, but the Winchester rifle that was half hidden by the thick woolen cloak of the lead guard, ruined that image.

No words were spoken, as the lead guard and raider just nodded at each other, then the lead guard spoke.  

"The High Priest is waiting for you in the chapel."  The lead rider nodded again, and turned to his companion, and motioned with a gloved hand.

"Come," he said, "We best not keep him waiting."  They followed the guards up the stairs, and into a dimly lit hallway.  It was cramped in this corridor, as there was barely enough room for the men to walk one behind the other. 

Then, the corridor emptied into a grand staircase, that overlooked a highly decorated circular room.  Stained glass windows plastered end of the room, with rows upon rows of raised seats, like a pantheon.  In the middle of the room, was a stone alter, with a white cloth covering it.  Before the alter, stood an aging man, with a snow-white beard, wearing the robes of a Russian Orthodox Priest.

All around the room were strange banners; they were blood red, with a black triangle on them.  In the middle of the triangle, was the black image of a scorpions tail. 

"Is he the one?"  The hollow voice of the old man called out.  The lead rider step forward, and bowed.  

"Yes, my lord," he replied.  "He is the one."  The old man turned around, to face his guests.

"Come forth," he said, motioning to the other rider.  The man stepped forward, past his friend, and the guards, to stand before the old man.  The riders face was half hidden by the shadows of his hood, but the workings of a thick tangled beard could be seen, jutting from his jaw.  "Are you ready to take the tests?"

"Yes, father," the man replied, "I am.  Test me!"

From a hidden door, a robed man carrying a red box, step forward, and glided over to the priest.  He bowed, and handed the old man the box.  The priest nodded his head to the man, who turned about and left, then placed the box on the stone alter.

"Can you tell me, my son, what is in this box?"

The man's head lowered slightly, and even though he could not see it, the priest could tell he had closed his eyes, and he concentrated.  Finally, his head rose, and he smiled.

"I see nothing," he replied, "Nothing is inside that box."  The priest picked it up, and lifted off the lid, then tilted it forward so all could see.

It was completely empty.

"Well done," the priest said.  "You have earned passageway into the highest order of the Brotherhood.  Kneel before me."  The man kneeled, and the Priest laid his right hand on his covered head.  He mumbled a few words, then looked back down at the man.

"Arise," he commanded, and the man rose, pulling back his hood.  His beard was long, and wavy, with a short mustache, his hair was neat and combed, he had piercing blue eyes, and appeared to be in his mid thirties.  "Tell me, my son, what is your name?"

"Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin," the man replied.

**ST. PETERSBURG: 1904**

The Czar walked into the church.  Nicholasfelt somewhat at ease inside the church.  Being a believer in God, he felt that God was the only man who could help him now.  He sighed, as he looked up at the gold statue of Jesus on the cross.  He knelt by the railing before the alter, and cupped his hands together.  He closed his eyes, and his face screwed up, as he prayed, prayed with all his hart and soul.

"What brings you to this church, Sire?"  The voice startled him.  Nicholas spun around, to see the man in the light brown rob, holding a lighted candle in one hand.  He had short brown hair, with a thick mustache and a thick, but short beard.  He looked back at the Czar with blue concerned eyes.  

"Oh, Father, forgive me," Nicholas stammered, getting to his feet.  "It's just that," he stopped short, trying to find the words.  "I need help!"

"Help?"  The priest said, raising one eyebrow.  "The Czar of Russia?"

"My wife," Nicholas said, "She is pregnant, and she will give birth soon."

"Birth is the most joyous of all moments in life, sire," the father replied, "Why are you upset?"

He sighed heavily, "I want a son."  He said.  "I have four daughters, and if the Romanov family is to survive, I must have a son!"

"So, you need to know weather your baby will be a boy or a girl?"  Nicholas nodded.

"Yes father, I must know!"  The priest rubbed his chin.  Then he said.

"Do you have an possession of your wife, with you?"  Nicholas reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small handkerchief.

"This belongs to her," he replied, "Will it be enough?"

The priest took it, and stared deeply into the fabric.  "Yes, yes it'll be perfect!"  He muttered, totally ignoring the Czar's question, as if he were answering a question he was asking himself.  "I will need time, to decipher the answer, I will have the results for you by this time tomorrow," he placed the handkerchief into his cloak pocket.  

"Thank you, father," Nicholas said, kissing his hand, "I will return tomorrow."  Then, he was gone.  

Yuri watched him leave, and then he pulled out the handkerchief, and stared deeply into it once more.  Something about this child was drawing him like a magnet.  Something about this child.  

He growled silently to himself.

Ever since he'd felt the changes in the time line, he'd been unsure of nearly everything, but things seemed to play themselves out.  First he joined the Marxists, now renamed the Bolsheviks after the party split last year, and now, this child.  

Damn nation, what did the son of a Czar have to do with him?  The timeline was still being altered, and Yuri didn't understand much of it himself, but he knew he had to be part of it.   He put the handkerchief away, and started towards the backroom of the church.  

For now, he'd wait, and see what happens.  The future will bring changes, that was for certain.  He'd be patient.  He'd let destiny come to him.


	3. Destinies Child

**CHAPTER 2: DESTINIES CHILD**

**ST. PETERSBURG: MAY 29, 1905**

Nicholas slammed the report down on table.  "This is an outrage!"  He shouted.  "Russia, defeated by… the Japanese?!"  He slammed his other fist down, making objects on the table jump.  "I can't believe it, I won't believe it!"  He roared.  

"The Pacific Fleet of seven Battleships, seven cruisers, twenty destroyers, and thirty-five gunboats, all destroyed."

"And what about our grand fleet, of 52 war ships that left St. Petersburg?"  Nicholas growled.

"Only 3 made it to Vladivostok, sire."

"How many men were killed?"

"A total of 4830 sire, that includes both officers and men, and 10 000 have been wounded or captured."

"Both our fleets destroyed, our army surrendered!  This is intolerable!"

"Both Vic-Admiral Zinovy Rozhestvensky, and Nebogatov are returning to St. Petersburg as we speak.  They will stand before a military tribunal for their crimes." 

"Might I recommend the death penalty for Nebogatov, for surrendering the fleet, sire?"  An advisor said, "After all, we still are at war with Japan, we have not signed any agreement yet!"

"We'll discus that option when he returns," Nicholas muttered, "But I think the death penalty is just a bit too harsh for the moment."  He sighed and sagged back into his chair, "The first defeat in Russian history since the Crimean War, and it had to be during my reign!"

Nicholas was interrupted by a knock at the door.  "Sire?"  A female voice questioned.

"Yes?" he demanded, "What is it?"

A palace maid entered the room, her head hanging a little.  She was hesitant to speak, but finally she said, "Its Alexi, sire."

Nicholas's jaw dropped.  "Bozhemoi!" he gasped, scrambling to get to his feet.  He turned back to his advisors one last time; "This meeting is post-powned until further notice!"  They all nodded, and gathered up their things.

Nicholas ran throughout the palace halls, rushing up stairs, past his grand bedroom, towards the bedroom of his son.  He threw open the doors, and rushed in.  His wife cradled his infant son in her arms, crying.  Blood trickled from Alexander's nose, splashing in tiny droplets on the bedroom floor.

Nicholas shrieked in horror.

"Sire?"  Nicholas turned to face the white bearded man standing near the door.  "May I have a word with you?  In private?"

"Yes," Nicholas, said, and the doctor lead him outside the room, into the hallway.  Once outside, the doctor sighed heavily, and said, "There's a problem, with your son, sire."

"What's the problem?"  Nicholas demanded.  "Why was he bleeding like that?  Is he dead?!"  Nicholas was getting scared.

"No, no!"  The doctor said hastily, "You son is very much alive."

"Then what's wrong then?"

"Your son… has Hemophilia."  The doctor finally said.

"What dose that mean?"  Nicholas cried.

"It means that your son is in danger of bleeding to death," the doctor said, "A fall, or even a blow to any part of his body, could cause massive internal bleeding."

Nicholas froze.  He couldn't move.  He couldn't speak.  

"Is… he going to die?"  Nicholas asked in a weak voice.

"Not if we don't do something soon."  The Doctor said.  "I know of a medical facility in Italy that would be able to help, with…"

"NO!"  Nicholas shouted.  "No, the world can't know, the Russian people can't know, that their future king is sick."

"Sire, with all due respect, to call your son's condition, 'sick' is a gross understatement!  Without the proper medical treatment, he will most surly die!"

"The Russian people mustn't know, doctor," Nicholas said, "You just name what you need, and I'll get it for you, no matter what it is, doctor's, equipment, you name it, you'll get it, just keep this to people you can trust to keep their mouths shut!"

"…"  The doctor narrowed his eyes.

"Please, doctor!"  Nicholas pleaded with him.

"Fine," the doctor said, "I shall have a list of who and what I need for you by tomorrow morning,"  Nicholas smiled.

"You'll get it, doctor," he said, "That I promise!"  The doctor just nodded, and went back inside and gathered up his things.  He left the palace in a temper.

The nerve.  The Czar of Russia, more concerned about his public image than his own son?!  This was his one and ONLY son whose life was on the line, and he wanted to play show off?!  If this job didn't pay so well as it did, he'd have quite, and moved elsewhere by now.  It was just so…

He staggered, clutching his head.  He felt dizzy, nauseous, as the world around him started to spin.  He dropped his medical bag, and grabbed hold of a nearby streetlight, trying to keep himself on two legs.

Then, the feeling was gone.  He breathed deeply a few times, and pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped his brow.  He looked around slowly.  A few people were giving him strange looks, but nothing serious.  Looking around once more, he bent down, and picked up his medical bag, and hurried off.  

From across the street, the bearded man in the dark brown trench coat watched the doctor quickly speed away.  He wasn't concerned about the doctor's public performance, but rather, what was on the doctor's mind.

Hemophilia?!

The already dark features on his face turned deadly.  He'd been waiting in this backwater country for more than a decade for some royal brat to show up, and the kid has Hemophilia!?!  

He spun around, and stormed off in a temper.  Most Hemophiliacs died not long after birth, and if they were lucky, they sometimes made it to 16.  If he was supposed to find this child, what the hell was he going to do with him?  Help him enjoy the last moments of his miserable spoilt life!?!

He had left the comforts of Transylvania for a Hemophiliac!?!  What the hell kind of destiny was that!?!  He growled loudly as he tried to calm himself.  He would just have to wait and see what would happen.  He wasn't going to let a decade of patients go to waist.

As he walked past a tree, a bird started chirping a pleasant tune.

"Lookit, mamma," a small child said, pulling on his mother's arm as they walked past the tree, "Pretty birdie singing!"

The man snarled, and looked directly at the bird, narrowing his eyes, and he concentrated.  The bird stopped chirping, and suddenly began to squawking madly, jumping up and down, flapping it's wings with the speed of a humming bird.

Then, it's head exploded in a shower of red, leaving its body to plummet to the ground.  Yuri grinned, as he walked off, to the sounds of a crying child.

**ST. PETERSBURG: 1907**

"He's here, your majesty," the guard said.  Nicholas nodded, as he placed his pen down, and stood up.

"Let's go," he said, and he followed the guard outside his room.  The guard led him down to the main entrance hall of the palace.  Waiting for him, was his wife, two members of his secret police, and a man with one long beard and a thick mustache.

Nicholas narrowed his eyes at this man.  He wore the black gown of an Orthodox Monk, and his hair was neatly combed.  He carried no bible; in fact, he carried nothing, save the clothes on his back.  But it was his eyes that drew Nicholas's attention.  Dark blue eyes that seemed to look right pace you, and deep into your soul.

He shivered.

"Is this him?"  Nicholas asked.  The monk stepped forward, and bowed slightly.

"Your majesty," he said, "Allow me to introduce myself."  He rose.  "I am Father Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin."  He held out his hand.

"Yes, well… he's right up here."  Nicholas muttered, ignoring the offer for a handshake.  Rasputin lowered his hand, and followed, flanked by the secret police.  They lead him down corridors, painted with splendor, and showing the glory of the Romanov density.

Finally, Nicholas turned into a room, mark with double doors, and Rasputin followed.  Inside, lay a young boy, not even ten years old.  He lay on his bed, breathing heavily, and looking up at the ceiling, as if he couldn't see at all.

"Alexi?"  Nicholas whispered.  The boy did not even flinch.  "It's me, your papa!"  Still no response.  "There is someone here to see you, Alexi, and very special guest."    A hand laid upon the Czar's shoulder.  

"I think I'll be able to handle this now, Sire," Rasputin said.  Nicholas nodded, as he stood up, and walked over to his wife, who hugged him closely.

"Please," The Czarina wept, "Father, you're our last hope."  Rasputin nodded to her.

"I shall do my best, your majesty," he replied, and turned back to the boy.  He laid his right hand on the boy's head, and closed his eyes, as he concentrated.   Then, slowly, his hand moved down the boy's body, across his chest, down his sheets, as if following his leg.

Then, with one single swift motion, he pulled back the sheets.

"How dare…!"  Nicholas started to say, only to be silenced by his wife.  Alexi's leg was 

"Alexi?"  Rasputin asked to the boy.  "Can you here me?"  His head turned slightly, but no words came out.  "My name is Grigory!  I am a Father of the Church, I am here to help you."

Alexi gave a small moan.  Rasputin patted his hand.

"Alexi?"  Nicholas called out.  Rasputin just held up his hand.

"The boy will be fine, your majesty," he replied, "He will be fine."  His hands traveled down to Alexi's leg, where the blood was swelling.  He clamped his hands on the boy's leg.  Alexi gave a small moan, and moved slightly.

"What are you doing!?!"  Nicholas insisted, and had his wife not held his arm strongly, he would have ripped Rasputin from the bedside.

"The work of God," Rasputin muttered, as he closed his eyes, and taking a deep breath, began to concentrate.  His grip tightened on the boy's leg, and his hands were starting to tremble.  Alexi's moans were getting louder, then, suddenly, his eyes flew open, and he cried out in fear.

"ALEXI!?!"  Both the Czar, and Czarina cried out.  Rasputin gasped loudly, as if he'd been holding his breath, and released his grip on Alexi's leg.  He stood up, and opened his eyes.  Alexi was gasping for breath to, as he slowly turned his head.

"Mamma?  Papa?"  He moaned weakly.

"Alexi?"  Nicholas gasped.  His wife burst into tears.  Nicholas slowly approached the bedside.  "My son, are you all right?"  Alexi raised his hand, and Nicholas grasped it in his.

"I feel… hungry, Papa," Alexi moaned.  Nicholas could not contain himself any longer.  He burst into tears, before his son, before his wife, before the members of his secret police, advisors, and this stranger, he wept openly with joy.

With tears blurring his vision, he turned to face Rasputin.  "Thank you, Father," he sobbed, "Thank you."  Then, the Czarina was at the bedside, holding her sons hand, along with her husband.  In the background, the palace advisors, and staff could only watch with amazement.

**3 DAYS LATER…**

"Chaaaaarge!"  Alexi shouted, as he galloped down the hallway, with his wooden horse, holding a wooden cavalry sword, still in his pajamas.  

"Whoa!"  Nicholas said with a half chuckle, as his son raced past, just as he was about to enter the hallway with an advisor.

"Good morning, Papa!"  Alexi shouted out, as he waved the sword at his farther.

"Good morning, my son!"  He called out, as the young prince disappeared around a corner.  He chuckled one last time, then continued walking, the advisor, just behind him, still looking back down the hall.

"It's incredible, sire," the man said, stilling looking back down the hallway, "in just only 24 hours, that man has managed to do what it's taken the best medical science just over a month!"  He turned back to the Czar.  "It's not only unbelievable, it's impossible!" 

"Nothing is impossible, if you have faith in God, Igor," Nicholas said with a smile, "That man is a God send, no doubt about it!"

"You believe that man is a miracle worker of God?"  Igor said, shocked, "Your majesty, with all due respect, you hardly even know that man!  He's from the backwoods of Siberia!  Heaven only knows what kind of diseases that man would probably be carrying!"

"The doctor's already checked him out when he first arrived," Nicholas said, "He was clean."

"I do not trust that man, sire!"  Igor said, leaning more closely, "I do not like the way he looks, and those eyes…!"  He trailed of, and shivered.  "I just don't like him, sire!"  

"What do you recommend?"  Nicholas asked.

"That he be watched, sire," Igor said, "Put some members of the police force to watch him, note his moves, see what he dose, and if possible, find out what he wants!"

Nicholas thought for a moment.  "Fine," he said, "Put some one on him right away."

Igor smiled.  "I will, sire," he replied, "In fact, I have the perfect man for the job."

**THE NEXT NIGHT…**

The sound of singing echoed up and down the streets, as Rasputin stumbled back to his apartment.  He climbed up the stairs, and struggled to open the door.  He forced it open, and staggered inside, and flopped down on his bed.

Oi, what a night!

Rasputin sighed, as he raised the wine bottle to his lips.  Empty.  He swore something unpleasant and tossed the empty bottle out the open window.  

The squeaking of the door being slowly closed brought Rasputin back to reality.  "Your getting careless, Grigory," the hollow voice said, "that you didn't even, notice I was following you!" 

"I knew you were there," Rasputin grumbled, not bothering to sit up, "I was just ignoring you."

"Oh, were you really?"  The figure was still hidden in the darkness.  "I find that hard to believe, epically since your back into your old habits again."

"What I chose to do with my free time is MY dissensions alone, Heinrich," Rasputin snapped, sitting up, The figure by the door, held up a hand.

"Please, Grigory , I am called Yuri now."

"Yuri?"  Rasputin spat out the word.  "Since when did _you_ become a Russian?  You made your choice years ago, although I am curious as to why you're back in Russia.  I thought you never wanted to see this frozen snowball again?"

"You know why I am here, Grigory," Yuri snapped, "You can feel it too, I know you can."  He started walking forward, into the moonlight shining through the window.  

"Feel what?" Rasptuin chuckled, slapping his backside, "I can't even feel my own ass," he laughed loudly.

"Don't pretend to be stupid, Grigory," Yuri said calmly, "The future has been altered, you can feel the vibrations in the timeline, just like I have." 

"What dose that have to do with me?"  Rasputin said, narrowing his eyes.

"You and I, we're special, and only we understand what we're capable of doing."

"I said no, all those years ago, Yuri, or whatever you're calling yourself, and I'll still say no to you now!"

"Then you'll have to go," Yuri said calmly.

"Don't threaten me, Yuri," Rasputin snarled back.  "I have very powerful friends now, and I am on a mission from them.  Do what ever you like, Yuri, but if you interfere with me, or my plans, I must warn you, my friends will take swift action to protect their interests."  

Yuri rubbed his chin.  "Since when did you ever get into the habit of making friends?  Who are they, hmmm, the Czar?"  Rasputin smiled.

"You have no idea, Yuri," he chuckled.

"Or could they be the brotherhood?"  Yuri snapped.  Rasputin gasped.

"How did you…"  Yuri held up a gold medallion, in the center of it, was a pyramid with a scorpions tail on each side.  Rasputins hand went to his own neck, as if to find something that wasn't there.

"You dropped this on your merry way home last night."  Yuri then tossed it over to Rasputin, who caught it.  "I must say, I never really thought the Brotherhood to exist, that it was just a fabrication of some drunk fool, until now!"

"Well, now you do," Rasputin said, putting his medallion around his neck.

"But I am curious, as to what the Brotherhood wants with a Hemophiliac?"

"And do you expect me to just tell you?"

"Well, in a word, yes."

"My reasons, and those of the Brotherhood, are mine and mine alone, Yuri."  He grinned.  "And I know your telepathy won't work on me…"

"Just as yours won't work on me," Yuri replied.

"Well, it appears we have ourselves a Mexican standoff," Rasputin replied, folding his arms.  "You want to know what I'm doing here, and vise versa!" 

"My dear, dear Grigory," Yuri muttered, shaking his head, "You haven't changed one bit.  You're still as arrogant as you were last time we met.  That shall be your downfall."

"I'll be as arrogant as I like, Yuri," Rasputin spat out, "And now, we have nothing more to discuses, get out, now!"  Yuri shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well," he turned and opened the door, "Goodbye Grigory.  We'll see each other again, very soon.  History demands it."

"Demand all you like, Yuri," Rasputin said, "Whether you like it or not, History is on my side, and if you interfere, I will bury you!"

Yuri just smiled back.  "My old friend," he replied, as he left, "History is about to change."

**COMING SOON…  "CHAPTER 3: AGENDAS"**


End file.
